


and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started

by calcifowl



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera (2004), Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: F/M, Post-Canon, if you will, with a healthy side of my meg/christine feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:47:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22741996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calcifowl/pseuds/calcifowl
Summary: and know the place for the first timeMeg has always been observant. She has always known that Christine wasn’t as alone in the world as she thought—she couldn’t, for the longest time, imagine who or what it was that always hovered near her, just out of their sight. The shape in the shadows. The shadow at the door, at the feet of their beds, watching. The whispering voice in the darkness; the quick and not-quite silent steps moving away down the corridors, towards the dark depths of the theatre. But she knew there was something, someone, always near. And so, she paid attention.
Relationships: Erik | Phantom of the Opera/Meg Giry
Comments: 4
Kudos: 44





	and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started

**Author's Note:**

> valentine's gift for my friend nana <3
> 
> since i had to rush to send it to her before the day ended i thought i might as well edit it properly and post it here

Meg has always been observant. She has always known that Christine wasn’t as alone in the world as she thought—she couldn’t, for the longest time, imagine who or what it was that always hovered near her, just out of their sight. The shape in the shadows. The shadow at the door, at the feet of their beds, watching. The whispering voice in the darkness; the quick and not-quite silent steps moving away down the corridors, towards the dark depths of the theatre. But she knew there was something, someone, always near. And so, she paid attention.

She has always been aware, to some extent, of her mother knowing more than she was letting on; of the fact that there was some true to the half-whispered stories about the Phantom, often told in jest or to scare the younger members of the troupe. Still, she has always pretended to be an innocent and clueless child, pretended not to notice her mother taking a letter from a gloved hand hiding amongst the shadows. Meg has never missed the way she looked around before disappearing behind a secret door or a mirror, for her mother didn’t only play messenger to the mysterious Phantom; as much as she tried to keep her meetings with him a secret, she was his only friend and confidant, and Meg could see even as a little girl how much she cared for the one she never spoke about. Still, as her understanding of the situation grew with her, Meg kept noticing the comings and goings of everyone around her, their fear, and then she knew. Or at least, knew enough; enough to know what Christine’s longer and longer stays in the chapel may mean when they began. She feigned ignorance, of course, pretending not to notice her absences or the way her mother gazed knowingly at her. Soon enough she learned about Christine’s secret master and her voice lessons, about her Angel of Music; Christine had never been very good at keeping secrets from her because she had never wanted to, and so she had told her almost as soon as they began, though she had vowed secrecy about her master’s identity. But still, Meg felt in her heart she knew who it was, and she wondered if she may be the only one. Surely her mother must have known, but Christine has always been like a daughter to her; and even though Meg had wondered, as a heavy feeling of dread started gnawing at her insides, if she had reason to worry, she didn’t. And then the Phantom came forward, and things started happening, and Meg wasn’t precisely surprised. She _was_ worried, now; about Christine, about her mother, about her whole family. But she was not surprised, and she was not worried about herself.

When the Red Death looked at her from the banister of the grand staircase a shiver ran through her spine. She had heard his soft voice in the distance, through the solid walls of the chapel; closer, at the other side of a door. She had found herself singing in reply more than once, her body answering as if on instinct to the call of a wild, hurt animal. _I’m being seen_ , she thought in that moment, oddly enough. She felt strangely naked in her white dress, those piercing eyes staring into hers. _I see you for what you are, and I know you_ , they seemed to say. Of course, that had only been an illusion, her mind playing tricks on her. He didn’t know her; no one knew her. She turned her back, the tiny white wings of her dress moving as if trying to escape. She was only a choir girl, a ballerina; no one even noticed her while she wasn’t dancing on stage. It was _her_ who knew _him_ , Christine’s strange phantom.

But then again, he was not Christine’s, was he? He was only a sad, lonely man, trying to possess Christine as if she were nothing more than a beautiful painting and not a person. As if she were only a toy for him to play with, to pull her strings and make her sing and dance beautifully. To put away in a box once he had become bored of her. And Christine may be little more than a child, just like Meg herself, but she knew her deeply; she knew her soul, her spirit, like no one else did or ever would. She knew her deepest dreams and fears, the true desires of her heart, and she knew, for she saw it in her face if not in her words, the pity she felt towards the Phantom, her curiosity. Maybe Christine even loved him, in a way, but never as much as she feared him, and never in a way that would ever be enough for the terrible creature, the petulant child, that tried to own her. Her Christine. Her friend, her sister, her soulmate. No one _owned_ Christine, and no one ever would. Meg knew Christine more than she knew herself, she knew that Christine was a free spirit that would never be tethered; a white swan that would always fly, free and alone, floating, falling, before picking up flight again; a vision of purity and grace, getting closer to others but always living in her own world, only granting others a fleeting glimpse of her. And for this Meg was happy, for as long as Christine had herself, she would never really need anyone else; and as long as Christine wanted her there, Meg would always be at her side. What did it matter if de Chagny decided he wanted her, if he thought that he would, that he even could, take her for himself? Christine would never belong to him, she would only belong to herself, and if her marrying that naïve man was what it took for her to be happy, to be safe, to be really free and have the life she had always dreamed of, then Meg would do everything in her power to help.

So, she did. She led everyone through the two-way mirror in Christine’s dressing room, through the darkness of the many twisting corridors, towards the Phantom’s underground lair. She found the Phantom’s mask abandoned; his home, the only one he had known for many years, empty. She knew then, somehow, what had happened. Not only that; she _understood_. And then she stayed there, alone for hours in the candle lit room, because Meg has always been observant.

She sits in a beautiful ornate chair next to a writing desk, where she has left the mask. There is a delicate music box on the desk, amidst a sea of half-scribbled papers. Lyrics, perhaps. It glints as the flame of the nearest candle flickers at her movements. She examines the box, and when she opens it, a ballerina in a white tutu starts dancing.

“Sweet ballerina,” comes a whisper from the darkness behind a curtain, through what seems to have been a mirror until not too long ago. There is an edge of desperation, of hunger in the voice. For what she cannott say, though she has her ideas, “my white swan.”

“Christine isn’t yours and neither am I.” Meg doesn’t turn towards the voice, choosing instead to continue inspecting the tiny figurine dancing inside the box. She knows the music by heart, and the dancer’s face has looked at her from the mirror for as long as she can remember. Her long blond hair is half tied with a lovely bow, her curls falling loose down her back, smaller ones framing her face.

“But you are the white swan,” the voice says again, calmer now, a small sliver of something that sounds a lot like hope slipping in, “aren’t you?”

Is she? Meg pauses; she has to wonder. She has always been second only to Christine, and only in what mattered to her; Meg has always been first _for_ Christine and for her mother, so it has never bothered her before. But she had wanted his attention, although she couldn’t say why, and now it is hers. She feels hot all of a sudden, her body becoming alive under the weight of the pair of eyes that she knows are watching her and only her. She isn’t a little girl anymore, and she _is_ being noticed, being seen. Now she is a woman; she is a white swan. But above everything else she is herself.

“Yes,” she whispers back, “I am Meg Giry.” The music stops; the ballerina is not dancing anymore. Meg stands up and strides purposefully towards the mess of broken glass, towards the red curtain that shrouds in shadows the silhouette of the man standing behind it, hiding. “You let her go.” It isn’t a question.

“I did.” Says the voice.

“And you came back.”

“I did.” _Why?_ Meg doesn’t ask. Still, the question must be clear in her silence, “I wanted to leave everything behind, to run and never turn back, but I had to. Come back. For the music box.”

“For the ballerina?”

“For my white swan,” he whispers, and hastens to add as Meg takes half a step back, “not like before. Not like—not like with Christine. She was a muse, yes. I tried to own her, to possess her. I tried to make her sing for me, to be my voice and my face, and I used her.” He trails off, regret clear in his voice. Meg isn’t wrong, then. “But the white swan—you—have always been something else. You saw me; you _see_ me, don’t you? You know me and what I have done, and yet you don’t seem to fear me.”

“I do, and I don’t.” As Meg grabs the curtain to uncover him, the Phantom reaches a hand to his face, to cover his deformity. “You don’t have to fear me, either.” She says, placing her hand over his on his face. Her hand, soft and warm, seems to awaken something in his chest. His heart flutters like the small wings of a fledgling only now learning how to fly. “The world has been cruel to you and you have been cruel in return. I do not mean to excuse what they did to you or what you did to them, but you have seen how hate only breeds hate, and so I propose to you: take my hand, come with me, and let me show you a different kind of world.”

“But I couldn’t,” his voice breaks, “my face…”

And Meg curls her thin pale fingers around his, taking his hand off his face. She looks at him, looks at his face properly for the first time. She doesn’t draw back in fear, nor disgusts, nor does she react in any way, because there is no reason to. She looks at his eyes and sees the deep well of sadness in them, but she also sees the hope, and the tears about to spill out.

“There is nothing wrong with your face, Erik.” It’s the first name Meg has said his name out loud, and the taste of it is bittersweet in her tongue; she wonders how long it has been since someone, maybe other than her mother, used it. “It may not look like everyone else’s, but it doesn’t make you a monster. People end up with worse injuries over drunken fights every day.” She rests her hand on his face then, and the tears fall free from Erik’s eyes. “I will not be seduced by cruelty or promises of grandeur, but you don’t have to be alone anymore if you don’t want to.”

Meg holds out her right hand to him, an offering; Erik takes it and steps out of the shadows.

**Author's Note:**

> well guess who's late for yet another life-consuming fandom
> 
> title from t. s. eliot's four quartets


End file.
